Out with a … fire 5
You know you are leaving Los Angeles when you can comfortably throw out your Thomas Guide, the non-GPS bible to getting around. I knew I was leaving when the fire trucks arrived.
Your layoff lady of leisure is discontinuing her 61-week underemployment lifestyle. My nationwide job search finds me relocating to Santa Barbara, California for a marketing position with a consumer electronics company. My seven years and a couple odd months in Los Angeles has been plagued with the usual California cliches: low-speed chases in the neighborhood, workplace drug deals, and who-do-you-know business card trading. Between the odd work experiences and the tragic dating scene, I would of smoked a 45cal if it weren’t for my friends.
Those same friends turned out to wish me well with martinis at Lola’s on a record-breaking 112-degree day in West Hollywood. We were enjoying the nice central air when the electricity went out. We assumed the production company in the back bar blew a circuit while filming. We continued to drink by candlelight only to discover that the transformer behind the restaurant blew and was on fire. In typical LA-fashion, we ignored the drama and continued to drink until we were asked to leave an hour later.
That’s the sum total metaphor of my Los Angeles experience: with shit swirling everywhere, I chose to focus on my career and my love life. I got no where.
It is time to evacuate.